ABSTRACT
The poetry of this little volume has a plausible air of imagination, inconsistent with the general indefiniteness of the ideas. Every thing in the language betokens poetic inspiration, but it rather resembles the leaves of the sybil when scattered by the wind. The annexed lines, which close a short poem, entitled the ‘Doomed City’, are less incomprehensible than most of the book, although the meaning is by no means perfectly clear:
[Quotes last 14 lines.]
